Beauté et la bête
by fight-fan-123
Summary: Helena's life is from both Donovan and Christie by a mysterious Russian man. Takes place during DOA 3 [Helena X Bayman] May change to M but T for now Chapter 4 up!
1. Chapter 1: The Truth

This is a fanfic I wanted to do for a long time. It's a Helena and Bayman pairing. It takes place around Helena's one cut scene in DOA 3. You have to imagine as if DOA 4 never happened and that everything went down in DOA 3. Also, assume Helena knows nothing about Victor Donovan. Reading and reviewing would be greatly appreciated.

Chapter 1: The Truth

Helena stared into the glistening, starry night sky as she stood upon the seaside mansion's balcony, sighing plaintively. The death of her parents, especially of her sweet mother, was taxing greatly on her conscious. Now, she was the head of a company she never wanted; her father, Fame Douglas, was obsessed with keeping his bloodline within DOATEC. Right now, however, Helena was fighting in the third Dead or Alive tournament for her freedom, freedom taken away by a mysterious man—Victor Donovan, the unseen roots of all her problems.

The French vixen sighed again, wiping a single tear from her eyes, wishing she could just grow wings and fly away from it all. As she stood there, in her sleek blue, white, and black leather outfit, her blonde ponytail blowing in the night breeze, tied with a blue ribbon, Helena heard a predator approach, like a snake in high grass—silent. She turned around suddenly, seeing the platinum-haired servant Donovan had hired, watching her with cold eyes.

"Christie? What are you doing here?" Helena asked innocently.

She just laughed, stroking her short hair back, wearing a sleek violet and tan jumpsuit. Christie had gained a liking towards Helena after seeing her for the _first _time some time ago; however, her employer had finally given the order to eliminate Helena once and for all, and upon this, Christie's heart became icy. Her only goal now was to watch the life escape from Helena's lungs and her soul be torn to ribbons.

"What's so—?"

Christie interjected, "I was sent to be your servant, but I'm really an assassin."

"Assassin?"

"Yes, to eliminate you."

Helena backed away, nervous and unprepared for a fight, especially against someone she believed was her friend. She entered her idle Pi Qua Quan stance, but Christie unexpectedly ran over, stinging her in the abdomen with a powerful strike, her hands in the form of two vipers: the basis for her deadly style—She Quan. Helena fell to her knees in pain, as Christie swiped lowly at her neck with her sharp nails. Helena rolled out of the way, kicking towards Christie's shin. Christie countered, however, pushing Helena onto the ground, leaping forward. Again, Helena slide away just in time to avoid Christie's pointed boot from crushing her face.

Helena stood to her feet, "You." Christie only smiled, reentering her stance, prepared to finish her assignment. "You killed my mother!" she yelled.

Christie only smiled, remembering the failed job at the opera house, how her sniper's bullet pierced the heart of her mother instead of Helena. With new anger in her visage, Helena ran over to Christie sending a powerful palm forward, only to miss her target, the assassin sidestepping behind Helena. Suddenly, the Pi Qua Quan fighter performed a powerful windmill strike, uppercut Christie in the face. Christie was only mildly stunned; however, Helena grabbed her wrist, spun her into the railing and kicked her over it.

Christie winced as the kick struck her abdomen, her spine bending over the railing as she fell, but, with catlike reflexes, the assassin landed to her feet gracefully. Helena, out for revenge, jumped down after her. Christie rolled out of the way just as the opera singer's boots struck the ground, leaving an imprint in the tile floor.

Christie then tugged at one of her gaudy triangle earrings, pulling it out stealthily. Helena ran towards her, but suddenly felt a piercing sting in her left shoulder, looking down, seeing a line of blood and some black liquid mixing in it.

Seeing her opponent distracted, Christie ran towards her and struck her several times in the stomach and back, sending her forward. Helena felt dizzy, holding her head, standing near the railing. Below her was a 100 foot drop into the rocky ocean. Helena wanted to continue, her soul consumed by revenge, but, before her blurred vision could clear, Christie leaped towards her and kicked her in the chest, knocking Helena into the ocean below. She watched as Helena plummeted into the water like a dying bird. A quiet splash followed; Christie walked away with a smile—a job well done. She felt the hole of her earring, her grin insidiously growing. The triangular earring had been laced with a rare poison; if by some miracle, the fall didn't kill Helena, the poison that had entered her bloodstream would.

The masked figure, waiting in the water, watched the woman plummet into the sea. He had planned to protect her that night, but he was too late . . . or was he?


	2. Chapter 2: Russian Savior

This is the second chapter in my Helena X Bayman fanfic. Thanks for the reviews on chapter 1; they were greatly appreciated. Hopefully this chapter doesn't fall short of the first.

* * *

Chapter 2: Russian Savior 

The scuba-equipped mercenary found the attacked woman sinking towards the ocean floor. He swam quickly to her, his large black flippers kicking the water rapidly as he wrapped his arms around her thin waist and swam to the surface. He surveyed the rocky ocean side cliff, spotting a hidden alcove cavern several meters away. He swam swiftly, hanging the unconscious woman onto his back, swimming against the current to the cave. Hopefully this all wouldn't come to waste.

Soon, he climbed into the cave, laying the woman onto her back, her entire body drenched by salty seawater. The mercenary, Bayman, removed his breathing apparatus and air tanks, exposing his dark eyes and slick-backed, brown hair. He looked into Helena's pale lips; they were motionless. Bayman immediately began to perform CPR, pressing down on her chest, holding her nose up and breathing into her lungs.

He was silent as he worked, focused, his brow covered in sweat. After placing his lips against hers one final time, he tasted salt water come into his mouth. He pulled away, watching the opera singer cough the rest out, lying back down to take a few desperate gasps for air. Helena's eyes stared into his, weakly, half-opened. She was too weak to move, but soon her arm felt numb, shocked by a paralyzing pain.

Bayman saw the wound on her arm, circled with a strange, black bruise. His eyes widened, recognizing the infection caused by the assassin's poison. He soon pulled the eight-inch combat knife he always carried with him from his diving suit. Helena's countenance disfigured into one of dread as the man grabbed her infected arm tightly, his steel blade reflecting the dim moonlight that entered the cave. Despite the paralyzing pain, she still struggled, but the Russian's grasp was too strong.

Her eyes filled with tears as the knife dug into her arm, blood trickling down to her wrist. Luckily for the two of them, the salt water had helped slow the poison's spreading; however, Bayman knew that he didn't have much time before the poison would travel to her heart, so he lifted her up and planted his lips onto the wounded shoulder.

By this time, Helena almost passed, too weak to protest as Bayman sucked the poison from her arm. He spat to the side, his lips covered in the crimson fluid as he extracted the venom from her system. He worked quickly, checking the circle around the wound. Helena's lids began to flutter as she moaned weakly. Bayman couldn't tell if she was in pain or feeling some other sensation, but he continued to remove the poison. Eventually the circle's blackness had dissolved; hopefully, she would be alright.

Helena felt the paralyzing pain disappear and reached up to stroke the face of the man, her eyes now calm and serene. Bayman felt the softness of her palm and held it warmly against his cheek; it'd been so long since a woman had caressed him, but there were more important things at hand. Bayman quickly put her hand down, watching her pass out into the black abyss of unconsciousness.

The Russian mercenary then stood up, replacing his knife to its rightful place and then grabbing a small GPS device, entering his coordinates. In a matter of minutes, a computer-controlled boat pulled up to the front of the alcove. Bayman grabbed Helena and, instead of brutishly hanging her over his shoulder, cradled her in his arms like an infant, entering the boat, laying the unconscious woman on the back seat. He laid her on the back seat and drove off into the night to his hideout.

Helena, adorned in a beautiful, flowing white gown, gracefully walked down the red-carpeted stairs to the opera house's front stage. After years of vocal training, she was ready for her own first solo performance. As she sang, her voice echoing harmoniously to the delight of the audience, her proud, loving mother watched from the sidelines. Helena was reaching the finale of performance when her mother noticed a small red dot travel up the whiteness of her gown. She shoved her beloved daughter out of the way, feeling two bullets pierce her heart, falling to the cold, marble floor. Immediately, screams erupted from the audience, a hidden assassin atop a nearby balcony fled, abandoning their weapon. Helena, holding her dying mother in her arms, her heart immediately shocked with sorrow, tragically screamed . . .

. . . and sat up in the bed where she had been placed, crying, living the nightmarish night once again. She cried deeply into the sheets, wishing the bullets would have hit her instead, saving her all of this pain. She sat up in the uncomfortable army cot, the white sheets wrapped around her, holding her head in pain. After a few minutes of crying, Helena laid back in the bed, wondering where she was. Still wearing the semi-damp outfit from the night before, her arm covered in bandages, she began to remember, the thick, chiseled jaw and strong face of the man who saved her. Helena sat up, walking to the steel door across the room, her barefeet freezing against the concrete floor.

She opened the door up and walked out into the foyer. It was empty and dim with barren walls, except for one thing: a solitary photo pinned to a black and red dart board. The photo, which was of an intelligent-looking individual, had three darts piercing his forehead. Helena continued to walk slowly when suddenly she heard two loud, booted footsteps behind her. She gasped, turning around, seeing a large, slick-haired man staring at her.

In a thick Russian accent, her savior replied, "I see you're awake."


	3. Chapter 3: Wantonnes for Power

After…I don't know how long, here is chapter 3. I have the entire story planned out so it shouldn't take too long to finish. I hope this doesn't suck or ruin the characters I established in the first two…it's been awhile. Comments will be greatly appreciated. Suggestions would help though too, but because of this the crossover is on pause…if you care.

* * *

Chapter 3: Wantonness for Power

"W-who are you?" Helena asked, stepping back defensively, an icy shiver running up her spine as she stared into the Russian's cold eyes. He took a few steps towards her, the shadow of his massive frame casting over her. Helena asked him who he was again, her voice slightly quivering, revealing the terror she hid in her bosom. He took another step, his boots echoing throughout the room. The silent tension grew immensely and Helena broke it, jabbing forward. The strong mercenary sidestepped, smiling after her initial, desperate attack. The French, Pi Qua Quan practitioner then spun around swinging her arm in toward the man's stomach.

Bayman was taken aback by her sudden attack, but wasn't unprepared. Upon her second attack, he grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her while taking his other, holding it beneath her chin. One more simple movement, a simple pull and she'd be dead with a broken neck, lying in a pool of blood pouring from her mouth. Bayman just stood there, applying pressure to weaken her, letting her lose a little breath, but by no means did he have plans to kill her. As he held her, her blonde ponytail brushed against his face, and for a split second the calming scent of sea salt and expensive, feminine perfumes entered his nostrils.

As she moaned quietly in pain, unable to do anything, the man replied, with a subtle cockiness, "This is the thanks I get for saving your life?" With that, the man pushed her away, allowing her to catch her breath.

Helena coughed, relieving her throat of pain, staring angrily at the Russian. He then began to speak, "You should be grateful, Ms. Douglas." She immediately wondered how he knew her name. "All your life, Helena, you've been in danger, especially," he paused, sighing, "since I killed your father."

Bayman waited for her response. If she was like most individuals, she'd relentlessly attack him. He'd probably have to sedate her; luckily, he stored a capped syringe in his back pocket. She slowly stood up, staring despondently towards the ground though in silence. "Because of you," she started, in a plain voice, "my life's been hell." Despite this rather seething statement, she did nothing else. Helena had no grudge against Bayman; he wasn't the one who killed her mother. "I was never close to Fame," she said, "He was a pig. He practically fathered an orchestra all around the world. I," she began to tear up, "was only close to my mother, before that bitch, Christie, murdered her."

Bayman could sense her anger as she clenched her fists angrily. Bayman knew all about Christie as well, the platinum-haired serpent, known for being as a cobra in high grass. "The more important thing to know is that she missed her real target," Bayman replied.

"Do you know who hired her?" Helena asked approaching him.

He simply pulled out his knife, the one he used to cut her arm up the night before, and looked at its clean, glistening blade. He then threw it at an amazing speed, its piercing tip entering the photo on the dart board and then said, "Victor Donovan."

Helena could easily sense his dislike, but was confused, "Donovan, but he's—"

"I know; he's the one who had you 'kidnapped'. He's also the one who hired me to kill your father and who hired Christie to kill you."

"W-why me though?" Helena asked nervously. "Who is he anyway?"

"He's the head scientist of DOATEC. A brilliant genius to some, but to me," he paused, walking over to the dart board and removing the knife, "he's a murderer. He wants complete control of DOATEC's financial resources to complete his ingenious _projects_. Your father was in control, having authority over him at all times, and Donovan desires ultimate power. Killing Fame should have been enough, but your father was obsessed with keeping his bloodline within the company. Why do you think he sired so many bastards? You were the purest of them though, the first, which is why you are supposed to adopt the company." Helena was shocked by all this, not knowing what to say as Bayman continued to speak.

"B-but I know nothing about running a—"

"That wasn't important to your father." He then sighed, summarizing the truth, "Simply, if you die, Donovan gets the company and the power to do whatever he wants."

"How do you know all this?" she asked, confused.

"I worked for Donovan, but—" he paused, hearing their screams, "it doesn't matter, I have my reasons."

All of this was entering Helena's head so fast that after a few minutes of silence she broke into tears on the floor. Anger—against her father, against Donovan, and against Christie—raged within her heart. Bayman approached her slowly and helped her to her feet, soon feeling her arms wrap around him.

Bayman was shocked that she would embrace her father's murderer in the search of comfort, but Helena only embraced him because he was the first person to tell her the truth. Bayman held her back, feeling her tears drip down and soak through his gray sweater. Unable to listen to her sobbing anymore, he pulled the syringe from his back pocket and quietly stuck it into her shoulder, hearing her wince and then feeling her fall into unconsciousness. He picked her up, cradling her again like an infant, and replaced her into the bed from which she awoke. He stared at her angelic body, actually contemplating the sickening thought of taking advantage of her, but it quickly left his mind as he shut the door, letting her get some more sleep, for it was still early in the morning.

* * *

Donovan sat calmly in his cold laboratory behind his metal desk, the steel reflecting the images of various tubes and machines as bright neon blue lit up the room. Soon, the doors across the room opened as the white-haired assassin, dressed in a dark, pin-stripped suit, entered. 

"Ah, Christie," Donovan replied to his lapdog as he adjusted his glass, "I see you're right on time for your payment; however," he began, seeing the assassin stop in her tracks, his voice becoming annoyed, "my men never found her body in those waters. They searched for hours."

Trying to defend herself, Christie replied, "Maybe a shark—"

"Sharks don't inhabit those waters."

"I saw her fall there myself. She shouldn't have survived, I even poisoned her," she said, fiddling her earrings, thinking of the possibilities.

"Regardless," he continued, gaining his composure, "this is the second time you failed to bring me her body; thus, this is the second time you won't be paid."

"You want me to scuba dive in those waters?" she asked cockily.

"No," he said smiling, throwing a large taupe envelope towards her. "In there is some information on an ex-assassin of mine. I suspect he's somehow linked to this _inconvenience_."

Christie glared as he hissed his final words, grabbing the folder and placing it in her black, leather briefcase, which should have been filled with cash. As Donovan watched the elusive woman leave, he sat back in his comfortable leather chair, whispering, "You won't stop me now, Bayman, not when I'm this close."


	4. Chapter 4: The Third Strike

_Here is Chapter 4. There's not much more I can say really? Should I change this to an M rating? If so, tell me ASAP so I don't get banned or anything. Anyway, reviews are appreciated as always. Thanks._

Chapter 4: The Third Strike

Helena woke up from her drug-induced sleep; her head felt heavy and cloudy. She sat up in the warm bed were Bayman had placed her, feeling the small sore where the needle had stuck her. She stood to her feet, looking at the closed, white door before her. On the handle, a simple outfit hung for her to change: jeans, a red shirt, and a pair of tennis shoes. They fit her perfectly, which Helena found peculiar. How much did Bayman _really _know about her? She opened the door, walking into the same, cold room as before. She stayed silent, not wanting to make the wrong move and receive another tranquilizer in the arm.

She approached the door opposite from her current bedroom, trying to turn its handle, feeling it stick. It was locked—from the inside? Bayman must have done it to protect her from the outside and from escaping. There was another door, which she opened slowly, revealing another bedroom, almost identically to hers. She could _sense _that it was his room by the musky scent inside. Helena was dumbfounded by how plainly the assassin lived. _Aren't they paid a fortune? _she questioned mentally.

She continued to snoop cautiously, finding a closet beside his bed. She opened it slowly, finding an organized storage room of stuffed cabinets, filled with various files and folders. She stepped in, slipping on a piece of paper beneath her foot. It was a photo of a young child and his parents. The kid looked so smile, but yet there was something to his eyes that Helena recognized, yet she didn't know from where. On the back was some Russian words, one of the few languages Helena couldn't read. It must have been some of the people he assassinated. _What a monster_ she thought, finally realizing no matter how nice he was towards her, he was just Machiavellian—out for himself in the end. Suddenly, she heard the knob of the locked door turn. She placed the photo down and ran out into the foyer and quickly into her room, closing the door.

Bayman entered slowly, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. He had a paper bag with him and carried it into his bedroom, setting it on his bed. He opened the closet, finding nothing but a misplaced photo of his family—with a faint tennis shoe imprint on it. His suspicions were right; Helena had formidable curiosity. He entered her room, finding her looking out the window, leaning on it, staring out at the ocean before her, sighing.

"You can stop acting," he said, "I know you were in my room—"

"What?" Helena interjected, turning around as if surprised by his sudden entry.

"And you seemed to have stumbled on this," he said, holding up the shoes-stained photograph. Helena stepped back, nervous her keeper would do something rash. He then looked at it, sighing deeply, placing it in his back pocket.

"W-were they assignments too?" Helena asked, hidden contempt in her voice.

"No," he replied simply. Helena could see in his eyes that he was hiding something, deep secret within him that fueled his rage. There was a long silence between the two. Bayman then left the room and replaced the photo in his closet of files. Helena had followed him out of the room, but didn't enter his bedroom.

"N-now what?" she asked once he returned, closing the door behind him.

"We wait for Donovan to make a move."

"I see," the French woman replied.

Helena approached him, caressing his cheek. Bayman took her hand and held it warmly. He then quickly dropped them, turning around blushing. His feelings for her couldn't interfere with his ultimate mission, not when he was so close. Suddenly, Bayman heard a strange noise, a rumbling.

Helena blushed; her stomach was growling. She hadn't eaten for an entire day. Bayman laughed once, saying, "You must be hungry."

"A-a little," Helena blushed.

"Here, let's go somewhere," Bayman replied, "but first," he touched her hair, removing the giant, blue bow. He watched as her golden hair flowed out beautifully. He smiled, but quickly erased it, not wanting to show his affection for her. He then grabbed a hair tie from the paper bag in his room, tying her hair back in the ponytail. Helena blushed at how kind Bayman's touch was as he tied up her hair.

"T-thank you," she replied, looking exactly the same, sans the giant bow. Bayman took the keys from his pocket and opened the front door. Helena and Bayman entered an elevator, descending about twenty floors. Helena was surprised that Bayman lived in the plain-looking, beachside apartment complex—a humble living space for an assassin. The two walked side-by-side for several blocks before reaching a quaint, corner bistro. The two seated themselves outside seats in the crowd of patrons. Bayman and Helena ordered their meals and then just stared into each other's eyes. Bayman looked away as the two silently ate, unsure of what to say to one another…

* * *

Christie could only think of one individual who may have interfered with her assassination of Helena Douglas—an assassin she simply knew as Bayman. She didn't know exactly where the assassin was hiding, word in the underground said he was living quietly in Europe near a French beach. Christie had traveled to one, her first guess being her best. While walking downtown, dressed in black leather pants and a red-flamed, leather jacket, Christie spotted her target from behind, sitting in a small restaurant. Though her elegant bow was missing, her long, golden hair was like a beacon. Christie pulled a  
small pistol from her pocket and carefully took aim…

* * *

"Helena, watch out!" Bayman screamed, kicking her chair back as soon as he spotted the platinum-haired assassin. Helena fell hard onto her back, seeing Bayman scream in pain as red blood shot from his shoulder. He held it in pain as the crowd disbanded in a fury of screams. Christie lost her target and quickly ran away. Angered that once again her plans were foiled by the same assassin. 

Helena ran to Bayman's aid, holding the blood within the wound as best he could. "Where's a hospital?"

"I, I," he winced, the pain excruciating, "I can't go to a hospital."

The two quickly ran back to the apartment, taking the elevator through the garage, trying to prevent as many bloodstains as possible. Bayman opened the door and ran into his bedroom. "G-go into my bathroom! There's a first aid kit there!" Helena followed his commands as he coughed heavily. Bayman was losing a lot of blood. She opened the kit finding gauze and other medicines.

He grabbed a bottle of vodka from under his bed and drank half of it in under a minute. He lay back as she began to apply pressure to the wound. She grabbed the stitching material to close the wounds, but couldn't yet. "W-wait! The bullet's still in there," Bayman yelled.

Helena then grabbed the sterile pliers and dug it into his shoulder. Bayman did not cry aloud, but Helena could see his inner agony. She soon found the bullet and threw it to the floor. She looked frantically for some sort of stitching material. "How am I going to close the wound? It's too big!"

Bayman, he was breathing heavily in pain, replied, "I, I have an iron."

"That's crazy!"

"It's the only way!" he replied. Helena ran to grab the iron, plugging in the outlet nearby, setting it on the highest setting. Helena ripped some cloth, placing it in Bayman's mouth. She then grabbed the iron slowly as Bayman sat on the bed. He tensed his muscles up, suddenly feeling the searing heat against his wound. He screamed in agony as Helena used all her strength to hold the gag down, the iron, and Bayman himself. Second later, the scent of burning flesh in the air, Helena took the iron away. Bayman laid back on the bed, about to pass out, tears in his eyes, his muscles still tense and in pain.

"T-thank you," he replied weakly. He slowly closed his eyes, falling asleep. Helena stared at his massive stature, grateful that he had saved her life—again. Helena, looking around the still-wet, bloodstained sheets, sighed heavily. She grabbed some gauze from the kit and quickly wrapped up Bayman's shoulder.

She cleaned up his bedroom as best she could and sat next to him, caressing his face once again as he lay unconscious. She then looked at her bloody attire and re-entered the bathroom, undressing slowly and entering the shower to wash off the filth.

* * *

Hours later, Bayman awoke; his head and body still sore ravaged by the pain of the bullet wound. He grabbed the half-empty bottle of vodka near his bed and drank another swig of it, continuing his buzz. He sat up, looking around the room and then entered the living room of his apartment; Helena was nowhere to be found. He entered her bedroom; she was staring out her window again, just staring out into the sea. He took another swig, dropping the glass bottle. Helena turned around, surprised by Bayman's approach. He approached her, putting hand above her head, staring into her eyes with his currently glassy ones. He sniffed the air quietly, smelling her beautiful scent and her cleanliness.

Helena, on the other hand, smelt alcohol on his breath, but she was still aroused by his manly chest and large frame. He then grabbed caressed his face and kissed her passionately. Helena gasped, but kissed Bayman back. He then powerfully took her in his arms and threw her into the bed, pinning her there. Helena moaned as he kissed her neck, pinning her against the soft bed. Before they knew it, the two were engaged in a moment of bliss and ecstasy, but as soon as it began, it was over, the two, becoming lovers for but one night, were fast asleep as the bright, full moon shone through the beachside window.


End file.
